Martin peered round the edge of the door.
In a drawing-room rich with the luxury of twenty years ago, Aunt Cicely was sitting at one side of the tall mantelpiece just opposite. In her upraised face there was no trace of amusement; she was, Martin saw, deeply fascinated. At the other side of the mantelpiece, his back to it, Sir Henry Merrivale stood swelling with the same stuffed, heroic look.
The muffled lamps, dull red or white, struck gleams from a wine-coloured carpet. It was a setting for romance.
"This here," said H.M., whipping out a pocket-book and extracting a typewritten slip, "is a quotation from the Dictionary of National Biography, edition of 1889. It ain't there now, because a lot of people have got born since and they don't pay any attention to the arts. But here's just what it says.
" 'Merrivale, Sir Curtius, first baronet. (1583–1645?). Knighted by James I, created baronet Charles I. Poet, duellist, and lover of fair women.' "
Here H.M. gave a short cough, and glanced sideways behind his spectacles.
" 'He is best known for his lyric poetry, later collected by Anthony à Wood. Many present-day critics, including Mr. Andrew Lang, consider his best work — notably the lyric called, "Come rest in this bower, my honey-haired bride,’'—to be the equal of Herrick: How's that, hey?"
"It's lovely!" said Aunt Cicely, her eyes far away. ""Come rest in this bower, my honey -haired bride.' Could you recite it?"
H.M. touched his neck and made a long challenging noise. "You got a throat-spray?" he inquired. "Really, I…" Aunt Cicely looked round vaguely. I’m afraid…"
"Never mind," H.M. consoled her. "Well come back to mat Lord love a duck, I'll give it all the organ-stops I had when I played Richard the Third for Henry Irving. You just lemme go on with this."